


Stay, thou art so beautiful

by bauble, motetus



Series: Stay, thou art so beautiful [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble, https://archiveofourown.org/users/motetus/pseuds/motetus
Summary: "A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart."  ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, FaustWritten for Inception Reverse Bang in collaboration with the fantastic art of Motetus.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> The title comes from Goethe's 'Faust'. The title character, Faust, makes a deal with the Devil (represented by Mephistopheles), who agrees to serve Faust until the moment he attains the zenith of human happiness, such that he cries out to that moment to "stay, thou art so beautiful!" (Faust, I, l.1700) — at which point Mephistopheles may take his soul. Faust is pleased with the deal, as he believes this happy zenith will never come.

 

Such a small thing, the lit end of a candle--but to a youthful eye it seemed hungry enough to consume the whole world.

As a boy, Eames' grandmother regaled him with tales of living flames, the will-o'-the-wisps that haunted the moorland encircling their estate, luring those who wandered at night off marked paths. "What becomes of their prey?" Eames asked. 

"It varies from wisp to wisp, demon to demon," she replied, yellowed teeth baring as the wrinkles of her face shifted into something resembling a smile. "Some ghostly lights lead travelers to riches beyond their wildest imaginations, while others lead hapless souls to their ends in bog.

"But one must always beware the call of demons," she cautioned. "The supernatural world cares nothing of human life and death. Any prize a demon offers will be bought with a price too much for any mortal to endure."

"What foolishness you speak," Eames' father declared the first time he heard her talk of such things. "We live in a world of science and reason, not magic and mysticism. Prometheus didn't discover fire, and the gods didn't punish him for giving it to the rest of mankind."

"And who do you think benefits most from these scientific advances?" she replied. "A demon can live in the shadow of a machine as easily as he lives in the shadow of a candle; as long as shadows exist in men's hearts, so shall they."

Eames remembered the evening that she passed, the way the manor creaked when he stepped in her room, wind gusting through the open window from across the grey landscape outside. It hadn't been a peaceful death at all—her mouth parted in a last rattling gasp, eyes wide and unfocused.

In the years after, his father retreated further into his world of academic study, disinterest in Eames only seeming to grow with time. Eames' mother was long dead. A cavalcade of nannies and _au pairs_ did their best to relieve Eames of the hideous boredom of the estate, distract him from the sounds of his father pacing in the room above his, muttering to himself at all hours of the night or day.

Scholastically, Eames followed in his father's considerable footsteps: the oldest institutions, the finest education, the most pedigreed stock. "A formidable mind—much in the mold of his father," was the consistent refrain of teachers, administrators, even his grudging classmates. 

Despite all the praise and adulation he received, Eames could hardly stand each day that passed. To live only as an echo of his father was unbearable, and so he took the coursing river of fate into his hands and changed it.

"I hope you don't expect your father's name to carry much weight here," the military recruiter said as he flipped through Eames' file. "This isn't a place for bored children to wave guns about and play at being heroes."

"I've no interest in heroics," Eames replied. "Nor in riding on my father's coattails. All I want is an opportunity."

And so he received one.


	2. Act I

The grass Eames is lying upon forms a soft mat beneath his back, and there's the telltale crackle of fallen leaves when he shifts. He opens his eyes to a forest of birch trees all around him, slender white trunks giving way to a canopy of autumn leaves above, ablaze in red and orange and yellow. The air tastes crisp, with the slightest hint of chemical tar burning down the back of his nostrils, his throat—a side-effect of Somnacin that chemists haven't been yet been able to erase. 

  
[ ](http://i.imgur.com/2LngxWk.jpg)

 

Eames stares up at the grey sky, barely visible through the foliage, as the words of his commanding officer float in his mind's eye: _Eames is highly intelligent but willful and undisciplined, not to mention arrogant and reckless. Not only is he a poor fit for command, but his ability to build within dreams or alter existing dreamscapes is uninspiring—mediocre, at best. In my opinion, he has little potential to excel in the PASIV program and should be transferred to another unit as soon as is feasible._

'Uninspiring'? The pompous fool wouldn't recognize inspiration if it shat on his rug and smothered him to death with it. While it was true that Eames' rifle had failed to materialize fully in the training exercise yesterday, the blame lay solely on the damnable Somnacin blend they'd insisted on using; it slowed his reactions, made it impossible to concentrate. And while he'd failed to complete the mission objective in the time allotted, he certainly hadn't been the worst performer in the lot. That particular honor had gone to Carrington.

The whole report had been absurd. A farce, a sham—a personal vendetta poorly disguised as an objective evaluation of Eames' abilities within the PASIV program. And to think that this buffoon has the power to remove Eames from the program completely, shunt him off to work as a miserable desk jockey, secretary for some daft old general with stars so old they were probably smelted in the Bronze Age. The scenario is intolerable, and Eames won't allow it to come to pass.

Eames climbs up off the forest floor, flicking blades of grass from his sleeve. He'd broken into the lab for extra time with the PASIV machine alone, but now that he's asleep he's not entirely sure what to do. He could practice creating machine guns and other weaponry within the dreamscape, do drills and maneuvers on his own, but it hardly seems worth the effort. There must be something else—something in the endless potential of dreams that he's missing.

There's a path through the trees before him, lightly trodden but discernible. Eames takes a few steps down the path and it curves in such a way that he can't see where it leads. He glances backwards, but the soft patch of grass in which he'd landed has disappeared, swallowed up by dense vegetation.

Eames proceeds forward, and after a time—another thing so devilishly tricky to keep track of in dreams—the forest ends in a clearing with a lake spread before him. The water is crystalline, a midnight blue which shimmers and seems almost lit from within.

He walks to the edge of the lake and beholds his reflection: a man of barely twenty-five years, hair shorn in the way service demands, bare-cheeked and in uniform. After a moment's intense concentration, the reflection changes: hair longer, a few days' stubble in defiance of regulation, and civilian clothing.

Then the reflection changes again. First to men in his unit: cunning Graves, lazy Townsend, and brash Walker—a man Eames barely knew, seeing as he had been dishonorably discharged shortly after Eames joined the program. Each image lasts barely a minute in the water before shifting onto the next, eventually clouding and forming the persistent thorn in Eames' side: Bailey. Eames frowns at the visage of his commanding officer and kicks a clod of dirt into the water, dispelling it.

All the reflections disappear, and he finds himself staring into translucent water once more. It's impossible to guess at how deep the lake is, but from its glittering depths rises a small light, seeming to beckon Eames forwards. The edges of the light dance as a flame's would, twisting in an impossible breeze.

Eames puts a foot into the water and though it rises to the level of his ankle, it feels like a cloud, fog wrapped about his boot. He takes one step forward and then another when the water affects him with no more than a slight chill. Once he reaches the level of his waist, a staircase seems to form beneath him, a diagonal descent into the heart of the lake.

The step that submerges his head is not as difficult to take as he might have imagined; he finds himself holding his breath instinctively, but realizes as he exhales that there is nothing to fear. It is dark below the lake's surface, the flickering light always a few feet away, but there seems to be no immediate threat of drowning. Around him, the water that is not water is completely still; no currents move across it and no fish or other life disturb its quiet.

At the bottom of the lake, shadowy shapes resolve themselves into ornate furniture, overgrown with vines that seem to slither and grow as Eames passes. Above him, the lake rises up like a domed ceiling, and through the darkness he can no longer see the sky.

At the very center of it all is a tailor's mirror, also overgrown, its surfaces streaked with age. In the center mirror, Eames' reflection stares back at him. The mirror on the right shows the image of Bailey, frowning as he is so often wont to do. The last mirror shows an adoring young recruit—a pretty thing who'd sucked Eames' cock so enthusiastically a few days ago. 

And then Eames' reflection begins to speak. "They say you're unimaginative."

Eames clenches his jaw. "They're wrong."

To the right, Bailey raises a smug eyebrow. "If you don't find some way to impress them, they're going to eject you from the program."

"They're idiots." Eames' hands ball into fists. "I was meant for this program, I was meant for dreamshare--they're simply too blind to see."

The reflection of Eames melts away in the center mirror, blurring to something else—someone else. Someone whose voice echoes all around him, deep and unfamiliar. "What if you can't convince them?"

"I will," Eames says. "I'll find a way. I'll do whatever it takes."

In the mirror, there's a flash of gold and then it's gone. "I don't believe you."

 

 

 

Eames has heard of projections before, of course everyone in the PASIV program has—not from the brass, who are infuriatingly close-mouthed on anything that could be of actual importance, but from fellow soldiers or chemists who wonder aloud what the ramifications of killing a projection might be, whether something born in a dream could destroy in the real world. Eames wonders too, when trapped in the minds of dreamers whose projections cross the border of suspicious to actively violent.

But such philosophical questions aren't what he's interested in examining tonight.

He opens his eyes to a birch tree forest, lying in the same spot he'd been the last time he stole an hour with the PASIV, over a month ago. Considering how unpredictable and frankly random his other Somnacin-induced dreams have been, the repetition in setting is—odd.

As he walks through the forest, the path to the lake appears again, and so does the staircase. Eames only hesitates a moment before plunging downwards, making his way to the lakebed.

The tailor's mirror is there again, and all three reflections are of him. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he can see that the reflection on his right isn't wearing his expression. It is, in fact, watching him—the corner of its mouth turned up.

"Who are you?" Eames asks, turning to face his rogue reflection full-on.

"What does it look like?" it answers, sounding amused.

"It doesn't matter what you look like," Eames says. "You're not me."

"Oh, but it matters a great deal." And with those words, the image in the mirror changes from Eames to Bailey, who drops to his knees and cowers.

"Projections have relatively stable identities after they manifest," Eames says. "My feelings towards Bailey have nothing in common with how I feel about myself."

"Indeed?" The reflection in the far left mirror speaks. "And how do you feel about yourself?"

Eames turns, and the reflection shifts into the image of a man with dark hair and blue eyes—someone he'd slept with just last night. "How do you do this? How do you keep changing?"

"What an excellent question," the reflection in the center mirror replies. "A rather complicated answer, I am afraid."

"Tell me," Eames demands, reaching out to touch, stopped by glass. "Tell me how you do this. How you mimic all these people, how you mimic me."

The reflection begins to chuckle, and when it looks up at Eames again, its eyes gleam an unearthly golden color. "What should I tell you? What I am? How I came to do these things?"

"Teach me how." Eames pulls back from the glass, fingers leaving a streak down the center mirror. "I don't care what you are if you can teach me how to change my appearances in dreams, how to—forge someone else."

The man in the mirror changes once more, Eames' face morphing into features that are sharper and leaner, hair forming shapes that seem almost to project outwards like horns. There's something beautiful about what stares back at Eames, something inhuman as well. 

The man—the creature—puts a hand over the print Eames left on the other side of the glass and says in a voice that seems to vibrate the very marrow of Eames' bones, "This is not a thing I can teach behind walls."

Eames opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by an immense sense of vertigo as he is jerked upwards without warning. He comes awake with a gasp, the taste of tar trickling down the back of his throat.

"Welcome back, Mr. Eames," Bailey says as Eames opens his eyes. "I do hope you have some sort of compelling explanation for why you're in the laboratory without leave after hours, but somehow I'm guessing that will not be the case."

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/VAwQfw1.jpg)

 

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/PeeBAre.jpg)

 

Eames opens his eyes for what will hopefully be the last time to the birch forest, and hurries into the heart of the water. When he reaches the mirror, it's completely empty, devoid of reflections.

"Hello?" Eames approaches the mirror. "Hello?"

Silence is his only response, and there's not a flicker of movement within the glass. 

"Where are you?" Eames asks, taking a step back to pitch his voice more loudly in the cavernous bottom of the lake. "I have no time for games, so show yourself."

Minutes pass, and still the creature does not appear. Eames walks throughout the underwater palace, pushing over furniture, sending objects clattering to the ground with as much noise as possible. "I need your help. Bailey's finally got enough to eject me from the PASIV program and possibly court-martial me if I can't show them what the bloody hell I've been working on down here."

He runs out of furniture to upend and returns to the mirror, stares into its dust-covered depths. "Reveal yourself and teach me what you said you would."

The mirror seems to darken, a black fog filling it. Eames waits, but when a familiar voice speaks, it comes from behind him.

"Eames," the creature says. When Eames whirls around, he sees not a creature but a suit-clad man, lean of build and youthful. His eyes glow, as if a golden light flickers behind them. "It is so good to see you."

"You must teach me now," Eames says. "They could find me at any minute. And if they do, they'll—"

"You are frightened." The man puts a hand to Eames' cheek, a burst of heat igniting at the touch, momentarily shocking Eames into silence. "My poor dove."

"The last thing I am is frightened." Eames jerks away with a scowl, ignoring the warmth that lingers on his skin. "I'm simply in no mood for games. I'd be tempted to ask where the bloody hell you were, but it doesn't matter. Teach me everything you know."

"And if I do, will this save you?" 

"Perhaps, perhaps not. What does it matter to you?" Eames asks harshly, the tension inside his chest winding higher and higher as he thinks of the minutes ticking by in the waking world, of Townsend's dubious worth as a lookout.

"Because _you_ matter to me," the man says, seeming first surprised and then hurt by Eames' very question. "If I were to waste your time with something of no worth, how could I live with myself?"

"All of this is irrelevant," Eames says. "As soon as you teach me what I ask, I will do what must be done."

"But what if I could render you aid?" the man persists. "Not only down here, but up above as well?"

"You haven't helped me yet," Eames snaps, beginning to lose his patience.

"No?" Before he can protest, the man puts his hands upon Eames' shoulders and turns him back towards the mirror, where two normal reflections stare back at him and the third—

"Release me." Eames struggles but it's futile; the force that holds his body in place is heavier than lead, fingers unyielding as steel. And then there is the third reflection: a young woman, blonde, trying to wrestle free from a darkly handsome man's grip.

"This is only a fraction of what I could teach you," the man whispers, low and rough against Eames' ear. Something blazes to life within Eames, an electrifying fever which sweeps through him. When he looks down, the body he sees is not his own but that of the woman in the mirror.

"Yes," Eames breathes out in awe. "This is exactly what I need."

The man takes a step back, hands slipping from Eames' shoulders. As they do, the hold Eames has on his transformed body wavers and fades.

"No," Eames says, as the reflection in the mirror blurs and begins to revert. "No, bring it back. Show me how I can—"

"Eames, I want to show you everything," the man says, sounding pained. "But I'm afraid our time together is short and I can hardly—"

"There must be some way," Eames says. "There must be something—"

"If only we had more time." The man tips his head back and stares up, at where the bottom of the lake encloses them. "If only I could meet you elsewhere, and you didn't have to come to me."

"Where?" Eames asks. "I need to know. I need you to finish teaching me."

"Have you ever dreamt an idea and carried it with you into the waking world?" the man asks. "Fallen asleep with a problem and awoken with the solution?"

"If I enter another dream, will I be able to do this again?" Eames asks. The image of the woman is long gone. "Will I be able to forge someone else?"

"If only we had more time," the man repeats.

Eames stares at the man's reflection in the mirror; in the filtered light that reaches the very bottom of his lake, his expression is wistful and nearly sweet. He is beautiful, human, not frightening at all. "The waking world. You can help me there?"

The man turns to regard Eames thoughtfully. "I could. If you were to take me with you. If you were to free me."

"And how would I do that?"

"I am not as you are, carved from a beating heart and bones." The man rests a palm against Eames' chest, heavy through the shirt Eames is wearing. The touch is so hot it nearly scalds, but this time Eames does not move away. "All I need is the tiniest fraction of you, a sliver of the energy that pumps blood through your veins. With your help, I could become as you are—alive and awake."

"How is that possible?"

"How is this possible?" The man gestures to everything around them, the frozen darkness of the water. "Is what you know to be real truly so different than a dream? Or is it simply another state of shared consciousness, changeable to those with the will to act?"

"And then you will finish what you started?" Eames watches as the man's hand trails down his chest to his abdomen, before lifting away. For the briefest moment, Eames misses the touch. "I'll learn how to forge?"

"Yes." The man smiles as he comes closer. "You can become anyone you desire—anything you can imagine."

Eames thinks of Bailey's satisfied smirk morphing into surprise and horror, of the wonder he'll see on other soldiers' faces, and of the way his father would shake his head in disgust—if he bothered to come up from his books at all. "Will it hurt?"

"Oh no, my dove, not at all," the man says, low and soothing. "It'll take naught but a moment to consummate our agreement."

Eames doesn't know who leans forward first, but it seems so easy, so simple to fall into the man's embrace, to close his eyes as fingers sear his skin and lips enkindle something inside Eames, a passion he has been waiting his whole life to pursue.

The dream melts away and Eames opens his eyes to a nervously hovering Townsend, the imprint of the demon's hand still hot over his heart. Nothing looks at all different and yet he knows that everything has changed.

 

[](http://i.imgur.com/cFXUdsW.jpg)

 


	3. Act II

"Do you actually expect us to be able to talk in here?" Eames asks. He's seated across from Walker in a grimy booth, in a pub that's poorly lit, malodorous, and located in a rather dodgy part of London. Despite all of the aforementioned traits, the place is still crammed with boisterous patrons, rendering it both rowdy and loud.

"What?" Walker shouts back, neatly proving Eames' point.

Eames rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his Guinness—absolutely horrendous, of course, but the other choices had been worse—and raises his voice. "Who're we waiting for, anyway?"

"Specialist in dream architecture," Walker replies, leaning so close it feels as though he'll blow out Eames' eardrum. His breath smells like stale tobacco and there are large bags under his watery gray eyes. Men forced out of the service typically fall into two categories: ones who become lethal killing machines for hire, and ones that go straight to seed and expect the world to feel sorry for them. Walker is the latter. "Ex-military, though you wouldn't know it from the look of him, poncy git."

Eames frowns. "He was part of the PASIV program, then?"

"The American version—Project Freedom Eagle Libertybottom or whatever daft codename they've come up with."

"An American, really?" Not that Eames has anything in particular against Americans—he's slept with some very agreeable ones—but god knows what dealing with their ex-military is like. He envisions an obnoxious cowboy with a Texas twang and a ridiculous hat, but as he watches Walker push his lank, overgrown hair from his face, Eames reconsiders how much worse the American could possibly be.

"Seeing as neither of us can dream ourselves into a convincing cardboard box without assistance, an architect isn't optional for this job," Walker says, and though Eames is loath to admit it, he's right. Being able to create realistic dream buildings without falling back on recreating memories is a rare skill to begin with, and neither of them showed any aptitude whatsoever. Eames hadn't dreamt with Walker much before he was ejected from the program, but his one clear memory was that of a room where the angles of the walls were ever so slightly off—enough to drive all the projections to distraction and leave everyone with a mild headache upon waking.

"What about Allenhurst?" Eames suggests. "Hasn't enough brains to fill a teaspoon, but at least nobody's going to get motion sickness walking through one of his layouts."

"Allenhurst and I aren't on speaking terms," Walkers responds icily, and Eames sighs. "The candidate pool for rogue ex-Special Forces trained in dreamshare with a background in architecture is rather limited. Unless you happen to speak Mandarin, Japanese, or Persian, Americans are our best option."

"I speak both Mandarin and Farsi," Eames says.

"Well la de fucking da for you," Walker snarls. "I don't. And I'm certainly not about to be cut out of my own bloody job, so this topic is officially off the table for discussion."

"Fine, yes, alright." Eames takes a long drink of his beer—still abhorrent. "At least tell me once he arrives that we'll be taking our leave of this place."

"To go where? A posh office down in the Square Mile?"

Eames stares at Walker disbelievingly. "You want to formulate a plan in this madhouse."

"I'm certainly not bringing you lot back to mine," Walker says. "But if your Lordship would like to volunteer your ski chalet, then by all means."

"Fuck off," Eames says sourly. As if he still has a chalet to return to; his father sold that ages ago, along with anything could be even tangentially related to 'fun' or 'the enjoyment of life.' Not that it matters; Eames isn't currently welcome at any of the family properties at the moment. 

Eames looks up to see a man approaching their table, seeming not so much to emerge from the crowd as from the gloom surrounding it. He's wearing a suit, of all things, close-cut in a way which must be tailored or bespoke—a rather extravagant indulgence which shows off his leanly muscled frame. There's something about his face that niggles at the back of Eames' brain, something he can't quite put his finger on—

"Arthur," Walker says. "How nice of you to show."

Arthur seems not at all perturbed by Walker's foul manner and simply holds out a hand. "You must be Eames. Walker's told me about you."

"You have me at a disadvantage," Eames replies. Arthur's handshake is firm, stronger than he appears. When their palms separate, Eames feels a tingle, a residual warmth. "Walker's told me nothing about you."

"Nothing to tell, I'm afraid." Arthur's accent is crisp, New York rather than Texan, and his gaze sweeps over Eames with more than purely professional interest. "I haven't done much with my life yet."

"That's why we're all here," Walker interjects. "We're going to change that."

"Checking a wife's laundry for dirty knickers on behalf of a jealous husband is hardly the stuff of legend," Eames says dryly. "Rather mundane, in fact."

"You misunderstand the job," Arthur says, voice prim. "We're not checking for possible infidelity on her part—we're determining her level of knowledge about _his_."

"Such details hardly change our role in this," Eames replies. "We're—what do you Yanks call them—private eyes using slightly more illegal methods."

"Oh, but details are everything." Arthur takes a seat and Eames moves away a few inches. 

Arthur's gorgeous, really, and someone Eames would be quite eager to know better in a carnal sense under normal circumstances, priggish attitude notwithstanding. But one glance at Walker's sallow complexion reminds Eames that this is hardly the time for distractions; he needs money, and soon, lest he end up in straits even more dire than the ones he's currently in.

"You can handle the layout then?" Walker says. "The bank vault and the lobby shouldn't be a problem?"

"Not at all," Arthur says. "I'll show you the blueprints and we can do a run-through so you two can memorize the layout."

"You won't be coming with us?" Eames asks.

"Arthur's the lookout as well as the architect," Walker explains. "There to ensure nobody walks in during the oral surgery that's supposed to be taking place."

"I see."

"You sound skeptical, Mr. Eames," Arthur says. "You have an objection to the plan?"

"I'm having a hard time understanding why a man would be willing to pay us for nonsense that could be resolved if he simply took a moment to speak with his wife," Eames replies.

"Unfortunately, not every man is so perceptive when it comes to the hearts of their spouses," Arthur says with a slight smile. "He has children and he doesn't want her to leave with them. Or, more importantly, drain his bank accounts and sell his possessions."

"Should have stuffed it back into his trousers then, hm?" Eames says. "Or better yet, never got married at all."

"Both would have been prudent decisions for Mr. O'Malley." Arthur's smile widens. "But if it weren't for the secrets and vices of men, we'd have no livelihood."

"Look here, Eames," Walker says, "I know it's hardly glamorous work, but we have to start somewhere. If we can make a favorable impression on O'Malley, he could be the beginning of a set of referrals to all his friends and business partners."

"But what sort of referrals?" Eames mutters. "And what kind of work?"

"If this job is beneath you, then please, fetch another client willing to pay us to invade someone's dreams. Perhaps one with more high-minded pursuits," Walker says. "Haven't anything to offer in that department because you were kicked out of the military, bare-arsed, just like me? Oh, alright then."

"I chose to leave," Eames says, sulkily.

"Bollocks. You escaped with a slap on the wrist and honorable discharge because of all the weight your family threw about," Walker says. "I heard you were sneaking time with the PASIV, but what I want to know is what was so bloody fascinating you had to keep going back until you got caught. Did you discover how to transform all your projections into a harem? Learn how to suck your own dick?"

"I determined the meaning of life," Eames says. "I was originally going to share it with you, but now I don't think I shall."

Walker snorts. Arthur merely watches him with cool, appraising interest and says nothing. The unfortunate truth is: Eames doesn't remember. 

What he does remember is sneaking into the laboratory after hours, swiping Somnacin so he could have more time—but the memory of what transpired in those off-duty dreams have faded like the memory of a natural dream. There was a forest and a lake, maybe a mirror—although perhaps that was simply his reflection in the water. No matter how hard Eames concentrates, his mind refuses to cooperate. The memories slip away, a whisper beyond his grasp. 

There was something in those dreams that compelled him to return, he knows that much. Something worth everything that transpired after he was caught: Townsend's betrayal, Eames' disciplinary review, his discharge.

But the details are gone. And, as Arthur so irritatingly surmised, the details are everything.

As if sensing Eames' thoughts, Arthur cocks his head to one side and says, "Our trade and currency are secrets. It wouldn't do to let a valuable one go for free."

The conversation returns to the plan for the job, which is shaping up to be a monumental disaster, but Eames has little choice but to continue on. His avoidance of court-martial had been narrow indeed. Though his father had been predictably incandescent with rage, he'd pulled every last favor he could to resolve the matter--including calls to distant relatives to marshal their influence. After the dust settled, Eames had been allowed to leave with no further damage to his reputation done, but at a cost.

Now Eames finds himself cut off from nearly all the resources upon which he has always relied, reduced to a shabby flat in the West End some family member or another had bought with intentions to renovate that never came to fruition. Eames has money enough to feed and clothe himself, but that won't last forever and his father made it quite clear that the family coffers were not open to him any longer.

And thus, Walker.

"…Arthur, you'll create the layouts according to spec. Eames, you'll tail the mark to see which bank she frequents," Walker drones. Eames resists the urge to roll his eyes at how very literal the plan is; they'll be recreating her usual bank down to the potted plants and employees. "We'll reconvene, do a run through in a dream, and be prepared for her in three weeks' time."

"Marvelous." Eames stands. "I'll be taking my leave then."

"It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Eames." Arthur stands as well, and holds his hand out for a second shake. "I'll be in touch."

Eames feels his cock twitch at the physical contact, but reminds himself that the prospect of future employment isn't worth tossing away for a few blowjobs; Arthur looks the sort of man who's used to getting what he wants, and god help Eames if what they want isn't in perfect alignment.

 

 

"Walker's going to be late," Arthur announces as Eames approaches. 

After the roaring headache their previous meeting had induced, Eames had flat-out refused to meet in another pub. So here they are: in a secluded area of a park at the edge of the city, surrounded by trees and not much else. Overhead, an owl hoots and glides through the chill evening air.

"Naturally," Eames replies.

Arthur's wearing another spectacularly cut suit, overcoat unbuttoned almost casually across his chest. But there's nothing casual about Arthur at all; from his slicked back hair to the subtle paisley pattern of his red tie echoed in his pocket-square, everything is calculated for maximum effect. 

_Why are you here_ , Eames wants to ask. A man with Arthur's skill-set and background shouldn't be wasting his energies on piddling jobs like this. The payout's not even high enough for it to be worthwhile otherwise.

"What are you thinking about?" Arthur asks, sly, as if he already knows the answer. A ridiculous notion, of course.

"How it feels as though we're here to bury a body," Eames replies. Despite his best efforts, he shivers at the damp seeping in through his clothing.

"Whose?" Arthur asks, and at Eames' expression, smiles that sphinx-like curve. "If we were to bury a body, would it be yours or mine?"

Eames blinks. "Has anyone ever told you how unsettling your thought processes can be?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Has anyone ever told you how blunt you are for an Englishman?"

"Too many times to count," Eames replies dryly.

The sky opens up above them as it's been threatening to all day, and fat raindrops splatter into Eames' hair, down the bridge of his nose. He pulls out his umbrella and opens it, noticing that Arthur hasn't one.

"We could head inside, if you'd like," Eames says. His first impulse is to offer Arthur shelter under his umbrella, but Eames is not at all confident in his ability to restrain himself from offering more once Arthur's positioned in such close proximity. "I could call Walker to let him know we've moved."

"It's okay." Arthur holds his hands out, palms up, seemingly fascinated with the fall of rain across his body; Eames has to admit to a not quite passing interest in such himself. "This is—novel."

"Welcome to London." Eames awkwardly rubs his cold hands together round his umbrella handle and wishes he'd remembered to bring gloves.

"It's not what I'd imagined it would be," Arthur says, wiping a finger across his cheek and examining it, as if he expected to find something other than water. "But I'm enjoying it immensely."

"You find this weather agreeable, then?"

"More agreeable than some, I suppose," Arthur replies, tone light.

The rain continues to fall, tiny prisms refracting the minimal moonlight bleeding through the clouds. The wind shifts. A few droplets fall into Eames' eyes, transforming the world into a blur of shapes in the darkness, odd but somehow familiar. He blinks, but through the water Arthur's silhouette seems to shift, to become—

"Arthur," Eames says, quietly. "Have we met before?"

"Before today?" Arthur sounds amused, almost playful. "I hope so, otherwise I've misinterpreted the whole tenor of this conversation."

"Before this job," Eames says, not smiling in return.

Arthur tilts his head to one side. "Are you hitting on me?"

"What?" Eames blinks the last of the water away. "No, I--no."

Arthur takes three steps forward until his chest is inches away from Eames', close enough for them to be sharing breaths. "Too bad."

Before Eames can formulate a proper response—or hell, _any_ response—the shrill sound of a factory default ringtone pierces the night air, and Arthur turns to answer his mobile.

"Walker's nearby," Arthur says as he pockets the phone. "Let's go before he gets lost." He walks away, leaving Eames nothing to do but follow.

 

 

The bank interior Arthur designed is nothing short of magnificent, Eames is somewhat unhappy to note. The sexually frustrated portion of him had been quite hopeful that Arthur could be written off as another pretty face devoid of talent, and therefore someone he could safely fuck without consequence. But the layout is elegant, the furnishings realistic, and the surprising details—a few windowless back offices, hidden cameras with video feeds viewable from behind the teller window, button-operated microphones—absolutely inspired. He is, in short, staggeringly competent.

Perhaps other dream-architects will have a thimbleful of the thoroughness and work ethic Arthur has, but Eames is somewhat dubious about the odds of that. On one hand, it's convenient to have a contact within the dreamshare community who can be depended on to produce quality work (god knows Walker doesn't qualify). On the other: what a damnable shame, because Arthur's body is nothing but lean lines of beautiful.

Thus far, the job is going according to plan. The mark, Indira, is standing in the queue while Eames operates as a teller behind the window. As Eames passes the projection at the front of the line a small bundle of bank notes, Walker 'accidentally' bumps into Indira and palms the key to her bank vault. It's a painfully obvious swipe, but thankfully nobody notices anything amiss.

Walker makes his way down to the end of the lobby, where the entrance to the vault is. Eames hears, tinny through his earpiece, "I'm sorry, sir, but no one's allowed in without the manager."

This wasn't part of the plan. Alarmed, Eames checks the feed from the video cameras aimed right above the vault entrance and spots two large security guards standing in front of Walker, firm and unmoving.

"Excuse me," Indira says, standing in front of the glass with a slightly impatient expression.

"I'm sorry," Eames says, pressing the button that allows her to hear him speak. "What can I do for you today?"

"I'd like to make a withdrawal," she says, reaching into her handbag. Through the earpiece, Eames hears Walker attempting to talk his way through the subconscious security and failing. "The cash machines don't appear to be operational."

"My apologies," Eames says. If the entrance to the vault weren't located in the lobby, Walker could simply kill the guards and force his way in. But doing so in plain view of projections milling around the lobby is sure to attract a great deal of attention—not to mention risk drawing the notice of Indira herself. "We have our best teams working on getting them up and running as soon as possible."

"It's fine, though I suppose I'd better withdraw more in case this is an ongoing issue," Indira replies. "I'd like five hundred pounds, if you wouldn't mind. Here's my identification and account number."

"Of course, ma'am," he replies, mind racing with what to do about Walker, who seems to have made no progress with the guards. Eames has to buy him more time. "While you're here, are there any new accounts you'd like to open with us? A high-yield savings account, perhaps?"

"Ah—no, thank you, not today," she says. Eames sees Walker try to push past a guard and be pushed back immediately.

"Well, if you could fill this out." Eames grabs a form from behind the desk at random and shoves it into the dip beneath the window. "I'll get started on your transaction right away."

She frowns slightly, but accepts the papers and bends over her purse again, likely digging for a pen. Eames glances back at Walker, who has still made no progress, and then notices in his peripheral vision the video feed of the back offices.

There are projections sitting around a table in the break room, tellers eating lunch and laughing until the bank manager walks in, an officious woman with steel grey hair pulled back in a bun. But the last one to enter the room is a familiar figure in a finely-tailored suit; Eames sucks in a breath when he realizes it is, indeed, Arthur. Arthur, the member of their team that is supposed to be awake and guarding their sleeping bodies up top.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Arthur steps up to the bank manager and breaks her neck, causing the other projections in the room to leap up and attack. He handles them neatly, quietly, with hand-to-hand martial arts and a wicked-looking dagger, leaping through the air and knocking them to the ground with an inhuman grace. He disposes of the entire room neatly, and when he's finished hardly looks mussed.

"Excuse me for a moment," Eames says to Indira, who is still struggling with the four page form and nods distractedly. He walks towards the door to the offices and there Arthur is, not even out of breath.

"This is the bank manager's key," Arthur—or the projection of Arthur—says as he takes Eames' hand and presses something metal into the palm. "Go to the vault."

"What are you doing here?" Eames hisses. "What's happening up—"

"Everything's fine up there but not down here, which is why I came," Arthur says. "Now go to the vault. You need both Indira's key and the manager's key to open the lockbox anyway. I'll distract the mark."

"How—" Eames starts, but Arthur shoves him away with a muttered, _go_.

Eames stumbles away, towards Walker, and hears Arthur speak through the earpiece, "Hello, ma'am. I'm an attaché from the American government working here as part of an international counter-terrorism initiative. Your name has appeared on one of our joint Watch Lists, which we will need to investigate."

"You can't be serious," Eames hears Indira protest before he tunes her out. He's halfway to Walker now, and there's no way her subconscious security could ever mistake him for the fifty-something-year-old bank manager, unless—

Eames ducks into the nearest washroom and stares at his reflection. For a long minute, it seems as though nothing's going to happen. Then something twitches. The flicker of his ears to a smaller set, then the eyebrows, and a lightly wrinkled neck. The rest of the changes are triggered in a cascade, his reflection shrinking and shifting in the mirror to someone several stones lighter. The completed image is remarkable—a perfect likeness from the crow's feet to the small scar across her collarbone.

Eames smoothes down the edge of the navy blazer he's now wearing. It doesn't feel particularly different to be in this body, though he notices his line of sight is lower now that he's several inches shorter, and wearing high heel shoes throws all his body weight forward. A projection emerges from one of the stalls and blinks, visibly surprised to see a woman in the men's loo, and that's when Eames knows he's as ready as he's going to get.

He exits the bathroom and heads towards Walker, heels making a click click click sound across the marble floor. The guards glance over and nod with polite greetings, while Walker looks at him like any other projection.

Eames holds up the bank manager's key and advances towards the door. The guards move aside to allow him to pass, and he gestures for Walker to follow.

One of the guards accompanies them to the actual vault, which is at the end of a long hallway. When they reach their destination, Eames takes a deep breath, praying that the voice that emerges is at least female, and says, "Leave us."

It's not a perfect replica but it's apparently enough, as the guard nods once and walks out. Eames shuts the door behind them, and turns to Walker, who is watching him with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

"Shall we?" Eames asks, letting his voice change back first, Walker's eyes widening in confusion and then shock as the rest of him transforms.

"Eames?" Walker takes a step back, dumbfounded, and Eames savors the moment of realization. "How the bloody hell did you do that?"

"Just something I picked up," Eames says as he inserts the key into the safe door and taps the other keyhole. "Come on, we can talk later."

He's not sure what to expect when they open the safe door; they'd rehearsed most aspects of the plan before, but unsurprisingly, nobody had been too keen on leaving their actual secrets lying about for the rest of the team to discover. 

Indira's vault is literally filled to bursting with glossy photographs: all depicting various scenes she considers secret-worthy for one reason or another. Some are predictably sordid, others laughably bizarre, most totally irrelevant. None of the secrets involving her husband (and there are many) have to do with infidelity or knowledge thereof, and after they've checked the pile twice over, Walker nods.

"Good news, thank god," Walker says. "Now let's get the fuck out of here."

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/tsSgSrX.jpg)

 

 

The client is pleased with the results, even more pleased with a few choice secrets Walker and Eames supply to him based on what they saw in the photographs. He doesn't have anyone to immediately refer them to in terms of work, but he promises to contact them if he hears of any potential opportunities.

In the meanwhile, Eames, Walker, and Arthur lie low. Eames turns his attention to his dismal flat and, upon realizing that he hasn't the money to gut the place and redo it the way he'd like, contemplates finding some sort of job to supplement his unsteady criminal income. An inglorious state of affairs to be sure. Unfortunately, without clients, forgeries within dreams won't pay bills—no matter how breathtaking they are.

It's after an interview for some desk job or another (with his great-uncle's neighbor's nephew's son's friend) that he sees Arthur alone, as immaculately dressed as always.

Eames isn't sure what possesses him to tail Arthur, other than a niggling desire for a more satisfactory answer to the question of if—how—he knows Arthur. He ends up following Arthur into the Tate Modern, a tall and imposing building with far too many tourists for Eames' taste. 

He loses Arthur to the crowd, briefly, but rediscovers him in deep contemplation of a large sculpture. It's made up of metal strips forming a cage around a silvery sphere. "The Apple of My Eye" is the rather cryptic title on the sign.

"Could you imagine wearing this around your neck?" Arthur asks, in a tone that suggests he's been aware of Eames' presence for quite some time. "Not at its current size, but if you shrank it down to fit in the palm of your hand and could carry it with you."

"I suppose some women might be interested in a pendant like that, provided the level of detail was high enough," Eames replies, humoring Arthur even if he's not sure where this is going. "Rather sharp, though. Liable to cut you as you wear it."

"The danger would be part of the appeal," Arthur says. "Forbidden fruit always tastes twice as sweet."

Eames walks forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Arthur, their faces ghostly reflections in the twisted metal. "You didn't tell Walker about coming down into the dream."

"Neither did you."

"Wasn't my secret to keep or give away," Eames says. "How did you know to enter the dream? To obtain the second key?"

"Some bank vaults require two keys," Arthur replies. "When the allotted time had elapsed and the two of you hadn't come back, I assumed something must have gone wrong. So I dropped in to help."

"Then why did you send me with the key?" Eames presses. "Why didn't you go yourself?"

"Because I had to get back to my post. I assumed you would convince the guards to let you through, one way or another," Arthur replies, voice calm and collected. "You're not one to give up when you put your mind to something."

There's a reasonable-sounding explanation for everything and yet—

"I know you," Eames says quietly. "I don't remember how or why, but we both know it's true."

"If you did," their gazes lock in their reflections, and for a split second, the light makes Arthur's eyes flash a fleeting gold, "what of it?"

"I don't care to be at a continual disadvantage," Eames says. "And the fact that you're being so evasive is hardly reassuring."

"I suppose you have a point," Arthur says as he finally turns to face Eames with a smile that could only be described as coy. "Perhaps this will help jog your memory."

Before Eames knows what's happening, Arthur has a hand curved round the back of Eames' neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It's barely a brush of the lips and yet passes through Eames like a tremor, makes him stumble forward into Arthur's arms.

Eames' eyes flutter shut despite himself, heat surging through his bloodstream. He's done this before, he's felt this taste of surrender—not awake, but elsewhere, at the bottom of a shadowy lake—

Arthur releases him from the kiss and Eames staggers back. "We made a deal," Eames whispers as he touches a finger to his lips, feeling dizzy.

Arthur mirrors the motion, lips a deeper hue than they'd been before, spots of rosy color high in his cheeks. "We did."

"It worked, then," Eames says. "I brought you into the waking world."

"And I gave you the ability to become anything you want in dreams." Arthur's expression is fond, almost indulgent.

"That's why you—" Eames stops. "You said you could help me here, too. In other ways."

"Yes," Arthur replies, watching Eames with steady eyes.

"I need better jobs," Eames says, mind racing. "Better than Walker can get me. Interesting work, better payouts."

"Alright," Arthur says. "But it will take a little more in return, since this was not part of our original bargain."

"A little more what?"

Arthur's fingers skim down the buttons of Eames' shirt, leaving a burning trail in their wake. "I think you know."

"I—" Uneasiness stirs within Eames, even as his dick begins to harden.

"How about I show you what I can do and we'll revisit the subject of payment later?" Arthur interjects smoothly, fingers dancing away again. "Consider it an extension of credit."

"Sounds reasonable," Eames swallows in relief. If Arthur fails to meet Eames' expectations, he can always refuse to pay. "Two years, then, and we'll see."

"Two years," Arthur agrees, a smile lighting across his face. In the planes of the metal sculpture, his reflection is as jagged as it is beautiful.

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/GmaGks2.jpg)

 

Almost as soon as Eames returns home, he receives a phone call from Walker's client. He has an acquaintance, a high-level executive in a quandary. There's a business aspect (trade secrets are involved) and a personal one as well—in that the executive cocked up and landed himself in quite a mess. Because so much is at stake—from both the company's perspective and the executive's—the payout is extremely generous.

"I can meet to discuss the details, and then we'll see," Eames says, careful not to sound too eager.

The meeting goes well. The client is desperate, agrees to Eames' monetary demands, and even introduces Eames to the rest of the team she's started putting together: a chemist who can ensure a plentiful supply of Somnacin (paid for by the client), an extractor who's worked a number of successful corporate espionage jobs, and a promising young architect: Arthur.

"Did you doubt me?" Arthur asks, sounding far too smug when they meet in the well-appointed office space the client secured for them.

"Yes," Eames says, honestly. "But not anymore."

The team is excellent. The extractor, Ramos, is both professional and competent, with fascinating ideas that push the boundaries of what can be executed within dreams. The chemist, Hu, has managed to finally eliminate the chemical tar taste in the Somnacin compounds, making every trip under far more pleasant. Plus, the ready supply of Somnacin and a chemist on hand allow for more test runs with fewer worries about cost and health.

The extraction itself goes swimmingly. There are several minor hiccups in the plan, a few details they couldn't have anticipated, but Ramos handles all of them with confidence and ease. They secure the information needed and return to a happy client, who offers them a second job on an unrelated matter.

And so it begins: Eames' career in dreamshare. Through Ramos and Hu, he meets other extractors, chemists, and architects, but no forgers. As far as anyone knows or has ever heard, Eames is the only one of those.

Word spreads, and soon Eames is fielding calls from clients and dreamshare operatives alike: all eager for him to join their teams, eager to see what he can do. Eames continues to work with Ramos and Hu when he can, only reluctantly allowing others on the team.

Through it all, Arthur manages to accompany him on every job, assume an unremarked upon position as architect or, more recently, a point man. He smoothes the way in every scenario, handles projections with shocking violence and ease.

But all Eames can see when he looks at Arthur is frustrated desire and, moreover, the clock ticking on a debt. At the end of the first year, Eames finally corners Arthur alone in the kitchenette of the offices they're working out of.

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says as Eames shuts the door behind them. "Is there something you need?"

"What do you want from me?" Eames asks, in no mood for Arthur's flirtatious evasions.

"Aside from what we agreed on, all I want is to help," Arthur says. "You are the one who freed me, after all."

Eames looks away from Arthur, who is still infuriatingly, distractingly alluring. "You don't need to follow me anymore. I can work on my own."

"Oh?"

"I don't need your assistance," Eames says, studying the faux-marble grain of the formica countertop. "I know how to forge now and I can run my own teams."

"Okay," Arthur says, and Eames' gaze flicks up in surprise. "Do you want me to bow out of this job?"

Eames shakes his head. "Finish the job and then afterwards you can—do whatever it is you do in your free time."

"I have always wanted to learn how to ski," Arthurs says, sounding thoughtful. His hand grazes Eames' as he walks towards the door. The touch burns. "I'll be seeing you, Mr. Eames."

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/0gaU9Bq.jpg)

 

In the second year, Eames goes under nearly every day, practicing his forgeries and trying new ones. He forges everyone he meets, mimics their habits and voices and nervous tics. He forges relatives, old lovers, acquaintances—fills in the gaps of his knowledge with educated guesses to make the charade more convincing. He even begins creating composites ranging from minor facial changes to a complicated blend of three or more people. They're not entirely successful, not yet, but he's on his way.

He starts taking on more complex jobs, joining different teams with dreamshare operatives he knows only by reputation. Working with new people is challenging, dealing with various temperaments and backgrounds, nevermind skill. 

Not all the jobs are unqualified successes, but enough are that Eames is satisfied. He has money to travel, to see the world beyond the grey valleys of England, to buy flats and bungalows where he likes. He spends his days globetrotting, fucking whomever he wishes and doing whatever he wants.

He's made some enemies, of course, but his star is rising within the dreamshare community. And in spite of the numerous people who have tried, nobody else can do what he does. Nobody else knows how to forge.

Eames is lying on a beach in the south of France when something moves over him, a shadow reducing the temperature across his chest by several degrees. He opens his eyes to a face he hasn't seen in over a year—a face that had somehow completely receded from memory until now.

"Hello," Arthur says, kneeling on the sand. He's wearing a loose linen shirt, buttons open at the neck. Eames finds himself wanting to lick the exposed hollow of his throat.

"Arthur," Eames says, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on his skin, in the way Arthur's gaze sweeps over him with avid desire. There's something tugging at the back of his mind, but concern seems such a distant thing while lying on the beach beside a beautiful man.

"My god, look at you," Arthur breathes as he puts a hand on Eames' stomach and drags it brazenly to stop just above the top of his Speedos. "Do you know how hard it was for me to stay away?"

Eames takes a shuddering breath; Arthur's palm is hot against his skin, utterly distracting. "You've missed me, then?"

"I have," Arthur murmurs as he thumbs the divot of Eames' belly button, traces the ridged muscles of Eames' abdomen. "I've been thinking about you—the way you smell, the way you move."

"You haven't been thinking about my mouth?" Eames asks, eyelids falling to half-mast. 

"I don't need to tell you how fucking gorgeous your mouth is," Arthur says as he swings a leg over Eames and straddles his hips. "You hear it constantly."

"I do," Eames agrees as he grinds his erection up against Arthur's magnificently firm arse. "Rather different hearing it from someone I want to fuck, though."

Arthur stretches out across Eames' body, long and lean. "Then let's."

Eames doesn't remember how they get back to his hotel room, or how he ends up sprawled on the bed, nude, while Arthur disrobes in front of him. When Arthur crawls on top of him, they finally kiss and it's searing, it leaves Eames gasping while sweat blooms everywhere Arthur touches him: his legs, his arms, his chest.

Eames has grown so hard it hurts. He drags Arthur closer to him, seeking as much skin to skin contact as possible. Arthur seems to mirror his desperation, fingers combing through Eames' hair, cradling the back of his neck.

Arthur pulls away from Eames' mouth and stares down at him, dark and intense. "Do you want to come?" 

Eames strains up to reclaim his lips, but somehow Arthur has him pinned down, unable to reach him. "Yes—yes."

Arthur drifts closer, hips undulating in a smooth wave that brushes their erections together and leaves Eames shaking. "Do you want my cock?"

"Yes," Eames replies, nearly frantic for it, for anything. "Let me—let—"

"Are you sure?" Arthur asks, almost lazily stroking Eames' cheek.

Eames swears and uses the momentary shift in Arthur's weight to roll them over until he's on top. There's a clamoring inside him, a need to put his mouth on Arthur's cock, to lick and to taste and feel Arthur slide down his throat.

Arthur doesn't struggle as Eames drags his face down his body to his groin, lets Eames take a deep inhale when he reaches the head of Arthur's dick, which is fat and cut--gorgeous like the rest of him. Eames nuzzles his balls, pushes Arthur's legs further apart and licks a ring around the base. It's a tease, it's good, it's not enough.

Eames presses sucking kisses up the shaft to the bottom side of the head, tonguing gently while Arthur gasps. When he sucks the very tip between his lips, the driving need within him eases, relief washing over him as he sucks the precome dribbling from Arthur's dick like a man starved for sustenance. As he works more cock into his mouth, Arthur's fingers warm his skin at the top of his spine.

Eames looks up at Arthur and feels intoxicated, heady and so very very good. Arthur's thick in his mouth, smooth and hot and perfect. This is all Eames wants, is all he can think of wanting, with Arthur murmuring low praise, "You're so good at this, Eames, I knew you would be. And you love it, don't you?"

_Yes_ , Eames says without words, swallowing the rest of Arthur's cock until it brushes the back of his throat. _Yes, yes, yes_. 

"Do you want me to make you come like this?" Arthur asks. "Do you want the way I fuck your mouth to make you come?"

Eames groans as his dick swells impossibly harder against his thigh. He wants to reach down and jerk off, but one of his hands is caressing Arthur's balls, rolling them between his fingers, while the other is holding Arthur's leg splayed wide, thumb pressing into the pucker of Arthur's arse. He wants to come so badly, but how can he tear himself away, how can he—

"Fuck yourself on my cock," Arthur says, soft and barely audible over the obscene slurp of Eames' furious sucking. "I can make you come."

Eames moans and squeezes his eyes shut. His dick aches and his mind's spinning, delirious with how Arthur feels inside him but he can't, he can't—

Arthur shoves Eames' head down, thrusting his cock all the way down Eames' throat. Eames chokes, and struggles, and orgasms, hips humping at empty air while his dick empties itself across his belly. Dimly, he feels liquid sliding down his throat, hot and closing off whatever little air supply he had left. Eames tries to breathe, tries to swallow, but he's—

Eames opens his eyes to a dark room. He's in his hotel bed, alone, sheets pooled around his waist, sticky where they drape lower. His dick twinges, oversensitive.

There's no sign of Arthur.


	4. Act III

 

_Los Angeles, a year and a half later_

"Eames," Cobb says, straightening up over the architectural model he's working on as Eames saunters through the door. "You're not—what are you doing here?"

Cobb's handsome, Eames supposes, in that broad, dull, American way. A dependable architect and surprisingly skilled extractor, he forms a formidable team with that gorgeous French wife of his as chemist and Arthur as a point man. It's a pity they only go in for legal jobs (more paperwork, less pay), but that's what children and family will do to you.

"Arthur's expecting me," Eames lies smoothly, continuing towards the back office where Arthur has surely set up camp. "Carry on with whatever you're doing—I won't be long."

The expression on Cobb's face indicates skepticism, but he simply shakes his head and returns to the model. At a second glance, Eames notices a certain fatigue to Cobb's countenance that seems like it might be recent—a strange tension in his jaw that Eames can't recall ever seeing before. Trouble in suburban paradise, perhaps?

Eames sweeps into the office where Arthur is typing away at his laptop and shuts the door behind him. He's dressed in a suit, posture as elegant as always, and looks exactly the same as Eames remembers.

"This is a surprise," Arthur says, not sounding surprised at all.

"Inception," Eames says as Arthur shuts his laptop. "I believe it can be done."

Arthur pushes his wheeled chair back from the desk. "You've tried it?"

"Didn't take," Eames says, suddenly struck by the arrogant vee of Arthur's spread legs, the nearly lewd tailoring of his suit. "Not enough time to plan and a client who wouldn't dedicate the proper resources required for such an undertaking."

"I hear most of the dreamshare community has abandoned the idea of a successful inception." Arthur sits back, and Eames bites his lip at the way Arthur's trousers pull tight. "It's too difficult to convince a mark an idea was theirs all along."

"It's difficult but not impossible. Not if one is willing to go deeper." Eames tears his eyes away, the memories of Arthur's cock ramming down his throat entirely too fresh despite the year and a half that's passed.

"Eames," Arthur says softly as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, "are you asking me for something?"

"All I want is an opportunity," Eames says, an echo of words from what feels like another lifetime. "The necessary resources, a competent team. I can handle the rest myself."

Arthur is quiet a moment, inscrutable, before he finally nods. "Yes. Inception can be done. But it will take time to move all the proper pieces into alignment."

"I can wait."

"And since this is a new—arrangement," Arthur says, "I will require compensation."

Eames takes three steps forward to straddle Arthur's lap, curving forward to mouth lightly against Arthur's ear. "Shall we settle my tab now?"

Arthur's hands run up Eames' sides, heavy and hot. Eames sucks in a shaky breath as Arthur touches him all over, brings every nerve in his body tingling to life. He thinks about how it'd feel to slide to the floor and bury his face in Arthur's soft bollocks, or what it'd be like to strip naked and seat himself on Arthur's hard cock, writhe while Arthur watched and—

"Oh, my dove," Arthur murmurs as he pushes backwards in his chair and Eames is abruptly bereft of his touch. "You don't know what you do to me."

"Are you," Eames starts, blinking hazily as Arthur stands and puts his clothing to rights. "Don't you—"

Arthur quiets Eames with a gentle caress of his jaw. "Soon, Eames. Once the wheels have been set in motion."

Eames watches, wordless, as Arthur steps away and disappears through the door.

 

 

_Zurich, six months later_

 

Eames strolls through Münsterhof square, going completely unnoticed by the hordes of tourists who stop every few feet to take photos of the guild houses. None of their wallets contain credit cards he could plausibly use (Akihiko Yamaguchi, anyone?) but he does lift enough cash to see him comfortably through the week.

Aside from being the home of numerous multinational corporations and therefore ripe with corporate espionage opportunities, Zurich is a rather boring city. He's worked three consecutive jobs in Switzerland over the past five months and though they were lucrative, there's only so much skiing and German one can stomach before tedium sets in.

He's on his way back to the hotel when someone falls neatly into step beside him. One glance at the slim-cut trousers and dress shoes tell him all he needs to know: Arthur.

"I hope you're here to tell me I'm about to get a call," Eames says, "for a six figure job on the other side of the world."

"Tired of your private ski chalet already?" Arthur asks, sounding amused.

"I'm ready for something warmer," Eames says as he crosses the hotel lobby. "Africa, maybe. Somewhere to spend all the money I've accumulated from invading the exceedingly boring minds of bankers and accountants."

"The work is steady and it's safe," Arthur says. "There are worse things that could happen in dreams."

Eames glances sidelong at Arthur. "I heard about Cobb's wife. Is it true what they say?"

"The truth is—complicated," Arthur replies, and seems disinclined to say more than that. They reach Eames' hotel room and Arthur follows him in without so much as a by your leave. As soon as the door is closed, he says, "Your opportunity for inception is approaching. The pieces are falling into place."

"I see," Eames says as he tosses his jacket on a chair and walks over to the minibar. "Should I clear my calendar?"

"Not yet. I'll send word when it's time."

Eames pours a tiny bottle of vodka into a glass with orange juice and studies Arthur's reflection in the mirror above the counter. "Why are you here?"

"To tell you the news."

"You could have emailed me. Called."

"I could have." Arthur ducks his head, then looks up at Eames through dark lashes. "But maybe I wanted to see you."

"You've come to collect," Eames says, feeling clearheaded for the first time around Arthur in ages. There's the familiar curl of desire itching under his skin, but he's learned a thing or two about cold-bloodedness from the Swiss: this is all a business transaction, nothing more, and nothing less.

"You don't believe I'm here because I want to be," Arthur says. "You don't think I've missed you?"

"I think you want your payment," Eames replies, throwing back his screwdriver in two gulps. "And everything else is incidental."

"I could go," Arthur says. "If that's what you're telling me to do."

"Yes, go," Eames says, closing his eyes. "I'm in no mood for—"

Strong arms wind around Eames' waist, a firm chest presses against his back. "Eames," Arthur whispers as he nuzzles against the curve of Eames' neck, "please don't make me leave."

"You were the one who—" Eames stops himself before he can say, _sent me away_.

Arthur lifts Eames' right hand and presses a kiss to each knuckle. "I knew it would be months before I could deliver you anything and I couldn't stand the idea of seeing you disappointed. That's why I had to."

Eames swallows as Arthur's body seems to envelope him in heat. "I would have understood."

"I know that now." Arthur kisses and sucks at a spot behind Eames' ear, making him shudder with pleasure. "Will you let me make it up to you? Will you let me show you how much I've missed you?"

"How—" Eames starts, but Arthur simply takes his jaw in hand and kisses him. It's astonishingly gentle, Arthur's lips soft and sweet with promise. 

When Arthur breaks away from the kiss, Eames opens his mouth to protest but Arthur says, "Come with me."

Eames allows Arthur to lead him to the bed. Arthur sits down on the edge of the mattress and touches Eames' chest. "You're gorgeous, even when you're pouting."

"I don't pout," Eames says as Arthur parts his shirt and leans in to lavish a nipple with attention. Eames buries his fingers in Arthur's hair as Arthur switches from one nipple to the other, sucking and licking the sensitive flesh with single-minded devotion. Perhaps not so single-minded, however, because Eames feels his trousers, weighted down by his undone belt, fall past his hips to the floor, followed shortly by his boxers.

Eames can scarcely believe it when Arthur bends down to wrap his lips around Eames' cock. It doesn't feel like any other blowjob he's ever received before, the pleasure of it nearly transcendent as he jerks forward and Arthur simply takes it all. Eames registers a finger probing at his entrance and usually it'd hurt, but it doesn't—nothing hurts when Arthur's got his mouth wrapped round Eames' cock like this.

Then Arthur touches Eames's prostate and it's like a fucking sparkler going off behind his eyes. He doesn't know whether to thrust forwards or back, can hardly move at all with the rush of climax passing through him. He gasps and his hips stutter, Arthur smoothly swallowing and sucking without missing a beat.

After Eames finishes, he sags and Arthur guides him onto the sheets. Arthur crawls up over him and takes off his clothing, one article at a time, as Eames watches through half-closed eyes and touches liberally.

"Have I earned your forgiveness?" Arthur asks as he sits between Eames' legs, erection smearing precome against his inner thigh.

"Not yet," Eames says as he trails fingers up and down Arthur's back, over the swell of his arse.

"I guess I'll have to try harder then," Arthur says before lifting Eames' legs and pushing in.

Eames chokes out a gasp, unprepared for the blunt heat, the sensation of something pressing in, in, in. "Arthur," Eames exhales, unable to breathe as Arthur fully seats himself, buries his dick inside Eames like it was meant to be there.

When Arthur begins to fuck him, there's no hesitation, no gradual build. His every move rasps over Eames' prostate unerringly, steady bliss pulsing through Eames' entire body. His toes curl and his legs practically vibrate with tension, dick hardening again even though it's too soon, far too soon.

"I love the way you sound," Arthur whispers, voice a low counterpoint to the slap of their sweat-slicked bodies together, to the shocked moans Eames can't seem to stifle. "I want to hear you. I want to know you feel me inside you."

"Oh god," Eames says, an edge of desperation creeping in as Arthur slows his pace, pulls back. His fingertips scrabble across Arthur's back down to his arse, trying to will him into his earlier rhythm. "Please, I need—"

Arthur puts a hand to Eames' cheek and continues to fuck him, leisurely. It's amazing, tantalizing. "What do you need?"

"I need you," Eames says as he licks at the side of Arthur's thumb, shudders in relief when it finally slides between his lips to suckle. He's filled from both ends with Arthur, craving more, craving everything Arthur could ever give him.

"You have been good, haven't you?" Arthur purrs as he permits Eames to take more fingers into his mouth, suck on them rapturously. "You have been patient."

Eames wants to say _yes_ but can't for fear that Arthur's fingers will slip away if he does, leave his mouth empty. He settles on a moan deep within his throat instead, and thankfully, Arthur seems to understand. The pace of his hips increases and Eames pushes against him, frantic.

Arthur shushes Eames' frenzied moans, fucks him so hard Eames is practically convulsing, his legs clamping down on Arthur's hips. He wants to come again, he wants to feel Arthur come inside him, he wants a hand on his cock, he—

"I know what you need," Arthur says as he pulls his fingers from Eames' mouth and slams him flat on the bed with his forearm. Eames tries to chase after them, tries to protest, but it's no use—he's trapped and Arthur doesn't care what he wants. Arthur's eyes burn dark and Eames can't look away, doesn't want to.

"You'll make me come," Eames gasps, and as soon as he says it, he knows it to be true. He can feel Arthur's thick dick inside him, rubbing him raw and pulsing, filling him. It seems to go on forever. Eames wants it all.

Arthur smiles as he fucks Eames with his softening cock, liquid trickling between Eames' thighs. Arthur releases Eames' chest and drags his fingers down to coat them in semen. "You will still be good for me, won't you?" he asks as he tenderly feeds Eames his fingertips.

Eames parts his lips and laps at Arthur's come greedily, sucks Arthur in eagerly. Arthur knows what he needs and Eames is so grateful for that, so grateful his mouth is no longer empty. 

He comes, at last, Arthur's fingers stuffing his mouth and Arthur's cock stuffing his arse. His back arches off the bed and in a climax that's dazzling.

The orgasm leaves Eames slack-jawed and heaving, unable to move any of his limbs. His eyes shut to the sight of Arthur leaning over him, tracing the contours of his cheek.

He wakes to a darkened hotel room. He's lying face-down in sheets sticky with sweat and what appears to be his own semen. The covers have all been kicked to his floor, his entire body aches, and the memory of Arthur's fingers form a bruise all the way down his throat.

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/JJLRFys.jpg)

 

 

_Cairo, 6 months later_

Eames leaves Zurich, restless and ready to begin working on inception. He searches for Arthur, anxious for more details, a timeline—but there's no sign of him anywhere. 

Eames takes a job in Morocco, travels from Casablanca to Lagos, finally winds up in Cairo where he blackmails a contact for Arthur's current location in the city.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Eames asks once Arthur steps inside the hotel room and flips on the lights. "I've been looking for you for six bloody months!"

"Things got tight in New York," Arthur says, seeming unruffled by Eames' unscheduled presence as he closes the door. "I had to cover my tracks."

"The US, still?" Eames forces himself to sit back in his armchair, take a deep breath. "What were you doing on that side of the pond?"

"A little bit of this, a little bit of that," Arthur says as he loosens his tie. "You and I come from the old world, from tradition. But America is brave and new and filled with such… fascinating things." 

"What, like Dominick Cobb?" Eames sneers.

"His grief threatens to consume him," Arthur replies, sounding thoughtful. "It's a potent thing, what has manifested in his subconscious. I am curious to see how it will play out."

"Oh, right, of course, this is all a matter of professional curiosity," Eames says. "Need I remind you that we already made a deal? Exactly how long do you expect me to wait before I see results?"

Arthur undoes his cufflinks and sets them on the dresser calmly, one by one, but his mouth has thinned into a pale line. "I don't think I care for your tone, Mr. Eames."

"And I don't care for being jerked around for over a year," Eames says, standing. "I have been more than patient, Arthur."

"I told you inception would not be an overnight process." Arthur unbuttons his coat.

"And I paid with the expectation that I'd receive something for my trouble," Eames snarls. "Instead you disappear off the face of the earth and I'm left—"

It takes place so quickly Eames can hardly say what happens; one moment he's standing across the room from Arthur and the next he's slammed up against the wall, Arthur's forearm across his throat.

"You don't get to talk to me like that," Arthur says, eyes dark as he presses against Eames' air supply. 

"Fuck you," Eames chokes out, which earns him a rough shove to the ground.

"Do you really believe I answer to you?" Arthur asks as he advances, lifts Eames by the collar up to his knees. "That I care about your convenience? Your petty whims?"

Eames takes a swing at Arthur, and even though he misses, it is enough to cause Arthur to release him. "We had a deal," Eames bites out as he scrambles to his feet.

"I set the terms." Arthur's punch glances off Eames' jaw and sends him reeling. "You dictate nothing."

Eames staggers backwards and tries to hit back. Arthur evades the blow and uses Eames' own forward momentum to shove him forward. Eames crashes into the hotel desk, edge colliding with his stomach and knocking the breath from his body.

Arthur wrenches Eames' arm back behind his body and pushes Eames' face into the desk. Eames feels his lip split open as his cheek grinds painfully against the wood grain. "Why did you come here today, Eames? Was it to fight me? Because you know you can never win."

"Go to hell," Eames growls, struggling to break free. Arthur simply yanks Eames' arm back further, pain reverberating throughout his body.

"No. I don't think that's it." Arthur leans in close, breath hot against Eames' ear. Arthur's free hand—the one not holding Eames pinned to the desk—snakes around and up Eames' thigh to where he's painfully, shamefully hard. "I don't think you came here to talk about inception at all."

Eames twists and bucks, tries to throw Arthur off. Futile, of course. "You don't know fuck all," Eames says, but even to own his ears it sounds weak, the throbbing between his legs urgent and unmistakable. Arthur's body is a hot curve over him, feels like a thousand degrees all around him, hand cruelly confidant as he toys with Eames through his clothing.

"I know why you came," Arthur whispers. He undoes Eames' trousers, sends them to the ground while he continues to hold Eames face down, arse up and bare. "You came because it's been six months and now you're gagging for it, aren't you? You came to beg for my cock, didn't you?"

"I'd never beg," Eames grits out even as his dick swells further, heart pounding as he remembers the feel of Arthur inside him, not just his cock but his fingers—

"No more lies," Arthur purrs as he jerks Eames, rubs precome around the head of his dick with his thumb. "You want to feel me come inside you, don't you? You can't get enough."

Eames shudders when he feels Arthur's cock brush against his arse. He refuses to arch backwards, even though all he can think about is how it felt, how Arthur fucked him like an animal and made him pant for it—

"Tell me what you crave." Arthur removes his hand from Eames' cock and Eames bites his lip to stifle a groan, blood trickling into his mouth. 

Arthur shoves in with no warning and it hurts, dear god it hurts, but through the pain Eames feels his body begin to react, the grind of Arthur's cock relentless. Eames slumps, helpless against every unerring stroke. It feels like he's being ripped open, pleasure surging instead of pain, the length of Arthur so thick and beautiful.

"Arthur," Eames gasps, barely holding back moans as Arthur drills him without mercy, makes his entire body tingle and blaze. It's so good, it's so bloody good Eames can't move at all, can't do anything but take what Arthur's giving him, take it and pray it never stops. "Arthur, I—"

"Yes, Eames?" Arthur sounds hardly out of breath while Eames is panting, eyes rolling back with ecstasy.

"I—" Eames can't say it, he won't. Even as the heat and the pleasure cloud his mind, he refuses to give in.

Arthur releases Eames' pinned arm abruptly, kneeing Eames' legs open wider and tipping him forward for an angle that makes sparks fly behind Eames' eyes. "I can be kind," Arthur says, words punctuated by the obscene sound of his hips, his balls, slamming repeatedly against Eames' arse. "All you have to do is say."

Eames reaches forward with both arms to claw at the edge of the table, gripping hard in order to stay still as Arthur continues to fuck him. Eames refuses to thrust back, refuses to spread wider and take Arthur deeper, let him in as far as—

"Do you want me to come inside you?" Arthur asks. "Do you want me to fill you up inside? Leave you slick and wet? Do you want to lick the come away? Suck on my soft cock until I can fuck your mouth?"

Eames pants, slack-jawed, against the desk and feels lightheaded, delirious. He wants to rut mindlessly, wants to push back onto Arthur's glorious dick, wants Arthur to make him come over and over and over again.

And then Arthur's cock is suddenly gone. Eames pushes back against empty air a few times before realizing and releases a quiet moan before he can stop himself. When he moves to sit up, Arthur holds him down and his cock comes to lie gently against the cleft of Eames' arse. Eames feels his hole flutter, contract longingly around nothing, and aches.

"Eames," Arthur says quietly, patiently, even as Eames shifts restlessly. "Tell me."

"What—what do you want?" Eames finally manages.

Arthur begins to rock his hips lightly back and forth, an unsatisfying echo of the way he'd been fucking Eames before. "The truth."

"I want—inception," Eames says, unable to focus on anything but the sway of Arthur's cock against his arse.

Arthur lines his cockhead against Eames' hole but doesn't push in. "And?"

"And—and I want you," Eames says, sighing in relief when Arthur slides an inch inside.

"Excellent." Arthur kisses just behind Eames' ear and makes him shiver. "And?"

"I want—" Eames wets his lips. "I want everything you—you have to give me."

That earns Eames a slap on the arse and withdrawal of that one inch. "Eames," Arthur says warningly.

"Your—" Eames closes his eyes and tries to fight it but he can't, not when all he can think about is how much he wants Arthur to fuck him and put his fingers in his mouth, allow Eames to make him come. "Your cock. I came to you because it's been six months and I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop sucking off other men and imagining it's you, I can't stop searching for someone to fuck me like you do."

"Oh, dove," Arthur murmurs as he guides Eames' head back, allows him to suck a finger blissfully into his mouth. "Don't you feel better now?"

Eames moans contentedly as he runs his tongue up and down Arthur's index finger. When Arthur puts his cock against the rim of Eames' arsehole, Eames lets him sink in an inch or two before wriggling back gently, trying not to be greedy and take too much. Thankfully, Arthur doesn't pull away or rebuke him, in fact, he guides Eames' hips backwards until Arthur's fully sheathed inside and perfect, utterly perfect.

Arthur leads Eames' hips in a forward and back motion a few times before saying, "Make me come."

Eames inhales and then begins to fuck himself on Arthur's cock, slowly at first and then faster. Every time Eames pushes back it goes deep, so wonderfully deep, and every move forward leaves him hollow and wanting more. He can feel Arthur's satisfaction in the way he strokes Eames' belly, the way he feeds Eames another finger, and then a third. Eames moans with happiness and tightens around Arthur's cock, hopes he can make Arthur orgasm harder than he ever has before.

Eames can feel it when Arthur begins to come, the way his body tenses around Eames like a tightened bow string. Eames savors it, suckles at Arthur's fingers until he's finished.

"I remember when we first met," Arthur says as he withdraws his fingers from Eames' mouth, ignores the whimper. "I still think of it, sometimes. I was alone at the bottom of that lake for what felt like eons and then there you were: beautiful, vibrant, alive."

Eames turns in the circle of Arthur's arms and kisses his neck, trails down his body to his softening cock, glistening with smeared come. Eames nuzzles it, kisses up the sides and flutters his tongue just underneath the head. He begins to lick Arthur's dick clean in earnest, Arthur's words washing over him as he does.

"You were so angry, so defiant—desperate to prove yourself. But you have now, haven't you? No one can deny you any longer."

Eames hums around Arthur's cock, feeling it twitch gratifyingly in his mouth. His lip hurts, still tender and sore where it split, but it's no matter, no matter at all. Arthur caresses Eames' cheek, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, and smiles.

"I can give you anything you want, Eames. All you have to do is ask."

 

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/lTUqGuI.jpg)

 

 

 

When Eames wakes up, he's half-naked and horizontal across the floor. The desk has visible gouges across its surface, a chair is broken, and the the room is empty of Arthur and his possessions.

Eames sits up and winces, the place where his lip had scabbed over splitting again. His jaw is sore, his knees are covered in rug-burn, and the rest of his body simply aches.

_No more_ , Eames swears to himself, even as he knows that promise will be another lie.

 

 

_3 months later, Mombasa_

The offer for inception comes from Cobb, of all people. 

Whatever issues he may have with Arthur's demented sense of humor, Eames can't fault his delivery: the client is furnishing nearly unlimited resources, there's plenty to time to develop a thorough plan, and the team that Cobb's putting together is first class, if somewhat unconventional.

And of course, Arthur is serving as point man. 

The job itself proceeds surprisingly smoothly—unlimited funds and access does tend to make research and planning that much easier, Eames supposes. The team itself is functional, with relatively low levels of interpersonal friction, though Cobb is clearly growing more unhinged with every day that passes. Still, no one is incompetent, and his biggest gripe is that Arthur refuses to engage in anything sexual for the duration of the job ("No distractions, dove,") but insists on wearing trousers which leave virtually nothing to the imagination.

That, combined with Arthur's ongoing, insufferable work-priggishness (some things never change, really) occasionally leave Eames more obviously tetchy than he'd like. A fact their clever and exceedingly nosy architect hardly misses.

"How do you and Arthur know each other?" Ariadne asks while they're under together, doing a walkthrough of the fortress she designed. It's well-constructed—excellent, really.

"We've done a few jobs together over the years," Eames says, fully aware that's not the question she's asking.

"You met before, though, right?" she presses. "Arthur mentioned he knew you from before dreamshare really took off. When it was all still some military experiment."

"Perhaps he was lying, hm?" Eames examines the complicated locking mechanism on the vault doors—more for show than anything, but impressive all the same. "Arthur lies about a great many things."

"And you don't?" Ariadne replies, skeptically.

He chuckles. "In our line of work, it's a dangerous game to take a strange man with a pretty face at his word."

"It's not like that between me and Arthur," she protests immediately, cheeks pinking.

"It's nothing personal, my dear," Eames says as he finishes with the lock and prepares to shoot himself out of the dream, already considering the type of shortcut through the maze he'll have Ariadne install—a ventilation system, perhaps? "I rather suspect it's like that between Arthur and the entire world."

 

 

"Been spending your nights with Ariadne, have you?" Eames asks, lounging in Arthur's desk chair. The warehouse is empty except for the two of them, everyone having left for lunch or errands. "I thought you said no distractions."

"I'm not distracted," Arthur replies evenly as he approaches with a large pile of fresh photocopies. 

"She's barely more than a child." Eames puts his feet up on Arthur's desk and watches for the annoyed flinch.

"So were you when we first met," Arthur says as he goes about organizing the bank statements. 

"Is that your game, then?" Eames asks. "Youth?"

"Human age? No." Arthur pauses. "She's ambitious, just like you were. Eager for more than what her school can provide. Eager for—possibility."

Eames frowns. "And what am I?"

Arthur puts down his works and walks round the desk to where Eames is seated, close enough for Eames to smell the faint notes of his cologne. It is intoxicating, as always. "Possibility isn't what you're searching for anymore."

Eames turns his face two inches to the left, until his nose brushes against the silky fabric of Arthur's waistcoat. "There are still heights for me to scale. Fame, power, wealth."

"This job will provide you all three," Arthur murmurs as he brings a hand up to stroke Eames' neck.

A photo of Robert Fischer peeks out of the pile of papers, handsome and sad. "Our mark was born with all three in spades, and yet—"

"And yet all he longs for is reconciliation," Arthur says gently while Eames swallows, something strange and thick in his throat. "We're going to give him that. We're going to free him from the shackles of his father's dreams."

It's been three years since Eames last spoke with his father, five since it's been in person. Eames remembers being shocked by how old his father had looked at the time, how fragile the hunch of his spine, how grey he'd gone. Does he think of Eames when he looks up from his musty books, his endless research? Has anything changed in that empty old manor, or has everything stayed exactly as it was, coated in dust like an abandoned museum exhibit?

"You've done incredible things," Arthur says softly, palm coming to rest on Eames' back, at the base of his neck. The warmth is familiar, and Eames thinks that once, long ago, someone might have soothed him to sleep with a hand on that very spot. "Things that people have only ever imagined before."

"Things most of the world will never know about," Eames says, and can't help the trace of bitterness that creeps in.

Arthur tips Eames' head back with two fingers under his chin. "You don't need the world to know. Only the people who matter."

"Science," Eames' father had once said to him, "is the light which will guide all of humanity forward."

 

 

 

Inception takes, and Eames would scarcely believe it if not for witnessing it himself: Fischer kneeling by his father's bedside, years of regret lifted in a moment.

After they wake and split up, Eames rings Arthur for a spot of celebratory fucking. For the first time in months, Arthur acquiesces, agrees to taxi over to Eames' hotel room.

Eames expects a teeth-rattling pounding, but what he receives instead is Arthur kissing him, sweet and pliant. They kiss and kiss, Eames wondering when Arthur's going to escalate until he realizes that he simply won't. They're both hard but unhurried, Arthur breaking off every now and again to kiss all over Eames' neck, to murmur, "Eames, Eames," against his throat.

Eventually Eames guides him to the bed, bears him down and watches him strip. It's a challenge removing Arthur's trousers while Eames is grinding so assiduously on top of him, but they manage somehow, and Eames is delighted to discover Arthur skipped wearing his usual briefs entirely.

Everything feels hazy and slow as Arthur spreads his legs and pulls Eames towards him, inside him. His arse is every bit as beautiful and tight as it looks, Eames nearly dizzy with the clenching heat surrounding his cock.

"Are you going to make me come?" Arthur asks, lazily dragging his fingers across Eames' pectorals, playing with his chest hair.

"Can I say no?" Eames asks as he rolls his hips, savors the way Arthur tightens around him.

"Yes." Arthur smiles up at him, playful. "But I won't like that answer."

"You'll just keep asking until you hear what you want to hear."

"I could never force you to do something you don't want to." Arthur's hands drift round to Eames' backside, digging into his arse and driving him forward.

Eames drops his head to Arthur's shoulder, already on the verge of losing himself to this sublime, impossible heat. "All this time, and you've never told me what you want."

"You know." Eames can feel the curve of Arthur's lips ghosting across his ears. "I want everything."

 

 

Eames wakes, but finds himself not alone.

A few inches to his right is Arthur, lying flat on his back with arms arranged neatly by his sides. In sleep, he is perfectly composed, creases smoothed away, cupid's bow lips as rosy and ready to be kissed as Snow White. Eames has seen Arthur asleep a thousand times before, but this is the first in his bed, upon waking.

Eames' usual reaction to unexpected bedmates is annoyance, often tempered with a healthy dose of paranoia and a mental review of the list of people who'd be pleased to receive his disembodied head in the post. Today, however, he feels lethargic, fatigued but not ill-tempered. This is a surprise, though not an entirely unwelcome one.

"Awake?" Arthur asks, opening his eyes with no sign of grogginess.

"Enough," Eames says, not bothering to fumble with his totem. It hardly matters either way when he's with Arthur. "And you're still here."

"Cobb's gone home." Arthur offers a wisp of a smile, and it's impossible to read the emotion behind it. "At long last."

"Disappointed?" Eames asks. "Homesick?"

Arthur rolls over to face Eames, propped up on one elbow. "Me? I go home all the time. Well, to the nice parts, anyway."

"Limbo?" Eames hazards a guess. "Is that where you were first—born?"

Arthur hums thoughtfully. "It may be more accurate to say that I am a fragment of Limbo given shape, given will."

"You clawed your way out."

Arthur traces a tattooed whorl just above Eames' nipple. "You lifted me up."

Eames looks over Arthur's shoulder, through the half-shut curtains in the window. It's begun to rain.

"When was the last time you went home?" Arthur asks.

Eames considers remarking about Mombasa, then decides against it. There seems no point to dancing round the truth anymore. "Almost ten years since I set foot on that property. The hallowed ground of my birthright, or so my grandmother used to tell me."

"Do you miss it?"

Eames thinks back to the moors, the miserable sodding weather, the creaking floorboards and perpetual mustiness. "No," he says. "And yet I still want to see it. Strange."

"What do you want to see?"

"My old bedroom. My father's study. My—" Eames stops himself. 

"They were wrong about you," Arthur says. "Bailey, the military, everyone you knew growing up. They thought of you as an empty shadow."

"Fools," Eames says, scornful. "If they could see me now."

Arthur drags a fingernail across Eames' nipple, the contact sending a sharp bolt of arousal through Eames. "One look at you and they'd know."

"Yes," Eames says, as heat blossoms across his body, radiating from Arthur's hand. "You'll help me, we'll find them—"

"Yes," Arthur murmurs as he hikes Eames' legs in the air and enters him, rough and sweet and perfect.

 

 

They track down Townsend first, who has grown round and even more careless than he used to be. He cowers in the corner of kitchen while Eames advances.

"You sold me out," Eames says, level and cold. 

"That was ages ago," Townsend says, eyes darting towards Arthur. "And who—"

"You thought I'd forget?" Eames interrupts. "That I'd forgive you for destroying my military career?"

"Please, Eames, you have to understand. I had no choice." Townsend's double-chin wobbles as he swallows. "They made me—"

"You're pathetic," Eames says as he turns his back on Townsend. It takes but a moment, Arthur ever the model of brutal efficiency as he cuts Townsend off in mid-scream.

 

 

They find Walker next, his eyes widening in recognition and shock as he pulls out his gun. He puts up a fight, but not as much of one as Eames would have expected.

 

 

They save Bailey for last. He's grown paunchy and gray, highly decorated but consigned to a desk after a debilitating injury in his left knee.

It takes him a moment to place Eames' face, but after he does, he shakes his head. "I should have known," Bailey says. "I heard about Townsend."

"I don't forget those who have wronged me," Eames says, taking careful aim.

"You haven't changed at all," Bailey says, snide tone absolutely infuriating. "Did you come here to watch me ask for your forgiveness? For me to tell you I was wrong? Or simply to beg for my life?"

"I came here for one thing," Eames says before he pulls the trigger. "And that is to watch you die."

 

 

With Arthur by his side, Eames feels powerful, invincible. All of the dreamshare community has heard of his incredible skill, every client demands Eames as the head of their team, and each of Eames' enemies retreats into hiding, terrified of his wrath.

He has money, bank accounts overflowing and lucrative work only a phone call away. He travels, he gambles, he drinks, he smokes, he fucks in a dizzying whirl of locales and people.

This is happiness, Eames decides, it must be. This is a life lived, an existence his father could never comprehend, would only look down upon from his mountain of books.

"You're the only one who understands me," Eames says after a long night at a roulette table, as Arthur leads him back to his hotel room and bends him over the side of the bed. "You're the only one who knows me."

"I know, my beautiful dove," Arthur murmurs, soft words a contrast to the way he shoves in.

Eames buries his face in his arms, helpless as Arthur sets his entire body ablaze, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. "Do you—"

"Yes," Arthur says, though Eames doesn't even finish his question.

Eames can't do a thing besides pant, suck in giant, wheezing breaths while Arthur makes him shudder and soar. Eames has been fucked by many people, fucked even more, and it's never anything like it is with Arthur. None of them leave him shaky and weak and desperate for more.

"You've been so good," Arthur murmurs as Eames comes, slicking the sheets and his stomach. "So very good for me." Eames lets Arthur roll him onto his back, takes Arthur's prick eagerly between his lips.

"And look at how you've grown," Arthur continues, stroking Eames' cheek while Eames closes his eyes and sucks. It's so familiar by now—comforting.

Eames feels Arthur's dick pulse, come flooding the back of his mouth, and swallows contentedly. When Arthur pulls out, Eames lays back while Arthur straddles his face, allows Eames to lick Arthur's bollocks to his heart's content. Eames sucks them into his mouth one at a time, laps at them with his tongue, inhales the overwhelming scent of Arthur all around him. He could do this forever, but feels Arthur's cock, bumping against his cheek and nose, begin to stiffen once more.

"On your stomach," Arthur says. 

Eames exhales deeply as he rolls over, shudders at Arthur's mouth against his arse, raw and used. He hurts, he's never felt so empty before. When Arthur's tongue finally dips in, Eames' fingers and toes curl as something inside him loosens with relief. He wants to arch backwards and beg, but he's exhausted, wrung out.

Arthur coaxes another orgasm from Eames with his fingers and tongue, slides into him roughly again before Eames has even come down.

"Oh," Eames groans, and it takes tremendous effort to turn his head, continue to breathe through the wracking bliss. "Yes, Arthur, that's—"

Arthur smooths a hot hand down the Eames' sweat-slicked back, and continues to fuck him hard enough for his arse to ache. "I'm going to miss this," Arthur says, tone nearly tender.

Eames registers the words but can't quite work out their meaning, pleasure soaking his body and mind, eliminating the possibility for thoughts beyond _more, more, more_. Arthur's so deep inside him, exactly where he belongs.

"You brought me here, little dove," Arthur says as Eames' eyes slide shut, fatigue and warmth settling across him like a physical weight. "To a waking world filled with endless potential. Endless—hunger."

Eames struggles for a response but can't summon the energy to even moan. He is so tired, eyelids heavy, the darkness of sleep rushing to greet him.

Arthur flips Eames over as easily as a child, holds his body close and brushes his lips against Eames' one last time.

"I'll never forget you," Arthur whispers.

 

 

Arthur straightens his tie and considers his next step. The discovery of a phyiscal body poses no threat, but the disappearance of the only known forger in dreamshare will create ripples, rumors. Suspicions regarding the circumstances will slant towards the man Eames most frequently favored in his bed--in addition to his long list of enemies.

It may be necessary to begin anew, Arthur realizes with a pang of regret. A shame, for he has grown fond of this body, this face and name. Still, this is probably for the best; a new identity will allow for the formation of fresh relationships, untainted by any memories from the past.

He spares a moment to kneel on the bed beside Eames, stroke the curve of his jaw. He is beautiful in repose, his little dove. A pity that wings are so easily broken.

Arthur stands, closes his eyes and listens to the call of so many human hearts, beckoning him forward. Across an ocean he hears one voice in particular, a man with an empire shattered by his own hand, surrounded by a circle of sycophants. A man freed from the golden cage created by his father, in search of a new dream. A man who could have everything he desires, if only Arthur were there to show him the way.

Arthur opens his eyes and begins to walk with renewed purpose. Robert Fischer is waiting for him.

 

Fin

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/nBHgCAz.jpg)


End file.
